Eternity
by anyapierce
Summary: Hermione reflects on the war, her love, and her loss. And manages to lose everything in the process.


Eternity A dramatic romance by Anne Payne  
  
Happy birthday, Kara C!  
  
Pairings: R/Hr, D/P, N/L, H/G, Hr/L  
  
Rating: PG-13 for war violence  
  
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I: Reflections  
  
The deepest wounds are both eternal and internal. Fear drives human beings to horrid ends. To be different from others makes you beautiful. Bravery comes in all forms. Independence is essential to survival. Miracles happen, though their occurrence is seldom. Love is the greatest force on earth. Evil is conquerable through love. When pain, fear, beauty, independence, miracles, love, and evil unite, they become.  
  
Hermione Granger wrote these lines in her diary. She paused, raised her quill from the book, and sighed. For each one of these lines, excepting the last one, she thought of one name. The last line made her think of all of the names together.  
  
The first line was Draco Malfoy, obviously. The silver-tongued, fair- haired, cruel eyed Slytherin that had tormented her all of her life. was now dead. His death had been trivial in the big picture. He had not died a war hero, nor had he even died in the war. After all the fighting had ended, and Voldemort was vanquished, he was convicted of espionage for the enemy, and associating with Death Eaters. He had run off and was eventually murdered by an anonymous Auror using the killing curse.  
  
Pansy Parkinson was the second line. The only things she'd ever done in her life, she'd done out of fear. She was dead, also. Bellatrix Lestrange was responsible for her murder, a simple one. Hermione did not know why Bellatrix had murdered Pansy, nor even how. And she did not wish to learn such information, or to lament her foe's death. She knew that Pansy was dead, and the was enough.  
  
The third line was Luna's. She was so much different from everyone, so eccentric. Hermione and Luna, for the most part, had not gotten on well, for Hermione's wit and Luna's unconventional behaviour did not mix, but Neville and Luna got along famously. Hermione had attended Luna's funeral and had even cried for her, but she would never really begin to understand Luna. Once, she had tried. They had shared an amazing moment. But after that, they lost what they had so briefly found. They would never understand each other. She had to accept that fact.  
  
The fourth line belonged to Neville. Neville died a hero's death, defending Luna. Hermione remembered looking on as Voldemort pointed his wand at Neville.  
  
"Out of the way, foolish boy! It is the day for this girl to be murdered and you cannot negate that process!"  
  
Neville's face, white and defiant, came to her mind. Nearly all who were murdered using the killing curse wore looks of shock on their faces. But Neville's, good Neville's, did not. To the last moment, Neville was defending those he loved.  
  
Ginny Weasley's description came in the fifth line.. She was, had always been, an independent child. Death hadn't phased her. She'd gone off to Albania to fight in her sixth year, and no one had seen her since then. There was no body discovered, no remains. All that was left was the feisty spirit of a red-haired girl.  
  
The sixth line was Harry's. All that Hermione had left of him was a single eagle feather quill, a birthday present in his third year. Before he'd left to fight Voldemort, Harry had given it to her.  
  
"If I don't come back, Hermione," he had said, "keep this to remember me by."  
  
He had not come back that evening, nor the next one. And Hermione had not expected him to. Days later, the news leaked to the Wizarding World. Harry Potter had died attempting to kill Lord Voldemort. Voldemort had not survived the duel, nor had any of the Order of the Phoenix. All of the Death Eaters had been rounded up by the Ministry of Magic, and that was the last anyone saw of them.  
  
The seventh line was Ron's. Now, hot, bitter tears came to Hermione's wide brown eyes. She thought of his red hair, of his freckles. Ron, if anything, had died the worst death. As three Weasleys watched, he was tortured and subsequently burned alive, in order to extract information about Mundungus Fletcher's whereabouts. The guilty Death Eater in question, Lucius Malfoy, had been found dead at his manor several months later, with FW&GW burned into his forehead.  
  
Tom Riddle was the last line in the group. As he had taken apart the trio, he was also conquered by their love for each other. He did not understand what love could drive people to do and this ignorance would be his last..  
  
Hermione sighed. So many lives lost entirely, so many left hanging. The more she thought of the deaths, the harder her ghostly hand gripped the pencil.  
  
It was then that Hermione realized that she had not written a line for herself. She paused, put the quill back to the paper, and wrote 'Reflection is medicinal."  
  
For it was true. Already, she seemed to feel better. Thinking of the deaths of her friends aroused a great sadness in her, but the more she thought on it, the better she felt.  
  
Standing from her chair, she laid down her diary and pencil and drifted through the wall to her bedroom. She produced a sealed box from underneath her unmade bed and proceeded to rip the Spellotape from the edges.  
  
Inside was a jumble of wizarding photographs. Hermione picked up the top one with her translucent hand. It was of her, Harry, and Ron by the lake in their second year. She put it to be right after Harry vanquished Tom Riddle from the school and destroyed the diary. They had been so young, so innocent, so happy. None of them knew that in a few years time, they'd all be dead.  
  
Hermione had never come to understand the fact that she was dead. She had been determined to hang on to life, to Harry and Ron, that she remained. Their deaths she had not anticipated. Now, she was entirely alone, save for a few photographs.  
  
After the splitting of the Trio, Hermione decided to remain at Hogwarts. She had lurked at the back of Professor McGonagall's classroom, her ghostly face haunting the students. Never once did Professor McGonagall introduce the students to the ghost that haunted their classroom, but they found out regardless.  
  
In the Gryffindor Common Room at the beginning of each year, one wise Seventh Year would gather all of the First Years around him. He would tell them of the ghost that haunted their classroom, of her life at Hogwarts, and of her best friends, the famous Harry Potter and the brave Ron Weasley.  
  
This year, Hermione had been in attendance at this ritualistic introduction. One brave First Year had turned round, his mouth hanging in shock.  
  
"Did you really know Harry Potter?" he asked.  
  
She nodded.  
  
"What did he look like? What did he act like? Was he just as small as I am?" the boy asked.  
  
"Creevey, I presume?" Hermione inquired.  
  
"Aye, miss. My father was Dennis. He died in the War three months before Mum gave birth to me."  
  
"Well, young Master Creevey, Harry Potter was just as normal as you. He hated publicity and he was as humble as it was possible to be. He fell in love with Ginny Weasley in his Sixth Year, and when she died in his Seventh Year, he cried hardest. There was not a more wonderful, hardworking boy anywhere," Hermione replied. Those were the first and last words any Hogwarts student ever heard Hermione speak.  
  
Her mind wandered back to the box in her hands. She picked up another photograph from the pile and glanced about it. It was of Hermione and Ron, their photographic selves holding hands firmly. Hermione supposed it had been taken in their Seventh Year about, for Harry was standing broodingly off in the background. Ginny was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Harry's emotional end began when Sirius died. Hermione had seen the fire in his green eyes, once so wonderfully bright, fade. Ginny's death had broken him entirely. He did not sleep, he hardly ate, he spoke little. For he thought of but one thing, revenge against Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange.  
  
Hermione remembered the day she died clearly. It was three days after the Trio had graduated from Hogwarts. She had been on her way to Grimmauld Place from the Ministry and had been intercepted by Walden Macnair. He had knocked her unconscious and hauled her into the deserted Quality Quidditch Supplies (Quidditch had been forgotten as of late), raped her, and later tortured her for information.  
  
At last, he pulled a pocket knife from his belt.  
  
"I enjoy doing things manually," he explained.  
  
He then slit her throat.  
  
Hermione remembered dying. It was a hellish experience. one that she would not wish upon even her worst enemy. A wave of coldness had washed over her, threatening to bring her down, but she tried as hard as she could to stay up.  
  
Minutes later, she could feel her soul rising out of her body. She felt clammy, icy, but she continued to hang on. She did it for Ron, for Harry. But she had not expected their own deaths, to come just weeks later.  
  
Hermione Granger had become a ghost.  
  
She remembered crawling the long way to Grimmauld Place. She was physical draining after dying, and emotionally empty. Her strength was gone, and in its place was a quivering, naked body.  
  
Tonks had been the first to see Hermione in her new state. She had reached out to hug the brunette and her hands went straight through. Her screams were like to those of a dying person's. The noise awakened the whole house (Mrs. Black's portrait was gone), and before long, the whole Order of the Phoenix knew that Hermione Granger was dead.  
  
When Ron saw her, a great change came over him. She was no longer the vital, amiable girl he had once known. She was filled was hatred and bitterness, and in her, he could see all of his own suffering.  
  
Hermione reached forward to hug Ron. He pulled away as soon as her cold arms wrapped around his shoulders, trembling with fear.  
  
"I cannot love a ghost," he said, hanging his head.  
  
"Love knows no boundaries," Hermione returned.  
  
"Yours may not. Mine does."  
  
"Then let us part, Ronald Weasley. Remember this day as the day you were too afraid to love me," Hermione said, her hard eyes glimmering angrily.  
  
"Good bye, Hermione Granger," Ron sighed sadly.  
  
"And goodbye to you, Ronald Weasley."  
  
Those were the last words they ever spoke to each other. When they parted, Hermione walked slowly upstairs to the room she had once slept in, and threw herself on the shabby, moth-eaten bed.  
  
"What did I do to deserve this?" she screamed. It was as though all the emotion she had held back before burst, like a dam under pressure.  
  
Minutes later, a soft knock came at the door.  
  
"Hermione Granger? Are you in there?" a misty voice whispered.  
  
"Luna? Is that you?" Hermione inquired. The bug-eyed, crazy-faced girl stuck her head through the door.  
  
"Come in," Hermione whispered. Luna walked forward and seated herself on the bed, next to Hermione.  
  
"I'm sorry about Ronald," Luna said softly, placing her arm on Hermione's shoulder.  
  
"Don't be. He's always been narrow-minded."  
  
"I just wanted to let you know I'm here if you need me, Hermione Granger," Luna answered back, in that same soft, delicate tone of voice she had used before.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Luna stood and turned to go, but Hermione interrupted her.  
  
"Don't leave, please," she whispered. Luna walked back and sat next to Hermione. As Hermione cried, Luna reached up and wiped the pearly tears off her face.  
  
"Luna, thank you," Hermione said again. She leaned forward into Luna's breast and continued to cry. Luna, possessed by some motherly reflex, placed her arm around Hermione.  
  
"I'm still rooting for you," she whispered into Hermione's ear.  
  
Then she leaned forward and kissed Hermione on the lips.  
  
Hermione knew that it was not just a friendly kiss. There was a kind of sweet complexity to it, as though they were sharing their pain, their hatred of the world. It was as though Luna had agreed to, for the moment, shoulder Hermione's burden. It was a most beautiful emotion.  
  
And Hermione kissed her back. With all her might, she kissed Luna on the lips. She was letting Luna know how much she needed her.  
  
They sat there, Hermione's cold lips on Luna's soft, pink ones, for a few moments. Then, terrified, Hermione stood.  
  
"Don't tell!" she whispered. And then she ran from the room.  
  
Hermione left Grimmauld Place one week later. After that, neither Harry, Luna, Ron, or Neville ever saw her again. She attended their funerals, of course, lurking in the background out of sight, but they never looked upon her face again in their lives. And that was the way it was meant to be.  
  
Now, she had no one left but herself. Even that was no comfort. She wished so badly she could be dead, gone, with everyone else, wherever they had gone to. But she could not. She had chosen to remain, foolishly. And because of that misstep, Hermione Granger lived a miserable, awful life.  
  
She jolted herself back to the present, to the photograph she was staring at. It was silly, really, to continue to hold on to these images of all she had lost. She had really brought it upon herself, and it would not come back. She could not undo what had been done through her own stupid mistake.  
  
Tossing the photograph back into the box with the others, Hermione stood up. What was gone had gone, and she could not wish it back.  
  
Thankful, at last, to have gotten that burden off her chest, she fumbled around for a quill. She was going to write a letter.  
  
When she did turn up with one, it immediately set her back to her emotional pain. It was the quill Harry had given her, before he had died, just a day before she'd left Grimmauld Place for good.  
  
Forcing herself to forget that thought, she dipped the quill in her ink well and began to write.  
  
Dear Mum and Dad,  
  
I'm sorry it's been so long. Now that [here her hand trembled slightly] Voldemort is gone, it is safe to write letters. I know that this will not fall into his possession.  
  
I hope you are alive and well. I'm doing fine, and so are Harry and Ron. I'm now happily married to [here her hand shook again, the lie that she was about to write was eating at her] Ron.  
  
Love always,  
  
Your darling Hermione  
  
Hot tears dripped from her eyes onto the parchment as she signed it. Nearly everything she had written was a lie, but she felt that her parents were not ready, would not be ready for a long time, to here that she was a ghost. Lying to them was, perhaps, the hardest thing of all, short of Ron's cruel rejection.  
  
As the tears faded, she sealed the parchment up and called to her owl, Felicity. When at last Crookshanks had died in her Seventh Year, Ron had convinced her to buy an owl.  
  
She was a handsome, brown female. Ron had been the first person she had shown.  
  
"Her name's Felicity," she had said, "It means 'happiness.'"  
  
She tied the scroll meticulously to Felicity's leg and tossed her out the window, with the simple sentiments,  
  
"Go in peace."  
  
When she tossed the owl out the window, it was like she had let go at last. She had tied up all her loose ends, gotten everything done that she needed to. She had seen to her parents, at last. And she felt that she had done everything perfectly, for the first time since her death, even if most of it had been a lie. She had done it, and that was enough for her.  
  
She began to laugh, a high, crazy laugh. She was crazy with the thing she had just done, something that she had waited since breathing her last breath to do. She had succeeded in tying up her world, but in the process, she had lost her life, her friends, her world, and now, her sanity.  
  
She had gone crazy with the pain of it all. But it was a craziness infused with peace. When she let go, she was able to join her friends again in spirit. Though she remained on in body, she was in another world mentally. For the first time in her afterlife, she had learned to appreciate living, or not living, whichever was the case. Insane though she might have been, she was truly the happiest she had ever been in her life.  
  
Amidst her insane laughter, you could just barely make out an uttered, "thank you. thank you. you set me free."  
  
She praised Walden Macnair a million times over for killing her. He taught her what it was to lose everything. When she won so little a victory as to gain back a shade of what she had before, she was pleased tremendously. It had, in essence, been her last straw.  
  
It was better than living. It was living, dying, and being born again.  
  
~*~*~  
  
They found her crazed form a few weeks later, wandering around a graveyard, still laughing.  
  
"Death was not my end. I conquered all, I succeeded. I may be insane, but I am no longer sad. my life has just begun again."  
  
"Anyone know how to kill a ghost?" someone asked. There was a general murmuring, but no one could figure out the secret.  
  
The next day, they committed her to St. Mungo's. She sat, all day long, in a hospital bed, next to Gilderoy Lockhart, laughing.  
  
"Would you like my autograph? I'm quite famous, you know," he had asked her. But she just kept on laughing, giving no answer.  
  
He died three days later, affronted by the obnoxious girl ghost who dared doubt his fame. 


End file.
